


Two Cups of Coffee

by PedanticDictionary



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PedanticDictionary/pseuds/PedanticDictionary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, John slowly falls apart, unable to keep himself together anymore. He tries so hard not to think about Sherlock, but it's hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Cups of Coffee

After Sherlock’s casket was lowered into the ground, John Watson lost all sense of time. He didn’t know how he managed to make it to his therapy appointments at the right time on the right day, but somehow, he did. Mrs. Hudson tried to make some kind of impression on him, but nothing ever got through. Those first few weeks were the worst. He would wake up expecting to see Sherlock doing some experiment in the kitchen or yelling at some soap opera on the telly, but when he came down to an empty flat day after day, he started to lose hope, and oh, did he hope. If anyone were to fake their death so convincingly, it would have been Sherlock, but the detective wasn’t coming back.

More than once, John caught himself making two cups of coffee, and every time, he would barely make it to the table before collapsing to the floor, crying his eyes out, and sobbing those hoarse, awful sobs that he could never reconcile as his own. Once or twice, Mrs. Hudson had heard this awful crying and tried to help, but if he heard her, he gave no sign of it, only kept on with his terrible sobs. He would eventually drag himself into his chair, and drink the coffee he’d made for himself, leaving the one for Sherlock in front of the detective’s chair, on the off chance that he might come back anyway. Every time, when he came back from the job he’d gotten at the surgery, the coffee would still be sitting there on the table, cold and untouched. Every time, John would take the untouched coffee and pour it down the sink, trying not to remember why he’d made it in the first place.

John had never realized how much he needed Sherlock until the day he needed a cane just to be able to walk again. His coworkers had all noticed his gradually worsening limp, but they had all figured he knew about it and that they shouldn’t mention it. John, on the other hand, only noticed when he was heading towards the door to get home and his leg just wouldn’t support his weight. He found himself on the ground, clutching his leg even though he felt no pain, wondering how he hadn’t noticed his limp returning. Several of the nurses hurried over to help him, and as they helped him up, he tried to shake them off. He didn’t need help, shouldn’t need help. He could walk fine, Sherlock had proven that to him. As soon as the thought passed through his head, he felt tears welling up in his eyes, because every time he thought of Sherlock lately, all he could picture was his friend lying bloody and very dead on the pavement. One of the nurses offered to get him home, and his pride was too wounded already to deny her help. Once they arrived back at the flat, the nurse helped him up the stairs and went and found John’s cane for him. Mrs. Hudson saw the whole thing, but shut herself up in her own room to worry alone. John wouldn’t respond to her, anyway.

Another side effect of losing Sherlock that John didn’t notice at first was that he lost all appetite again. Like the return of his limp, it happened slowly enough that everybody else noticed that he was barely eating before he noticed that he had to tighten his belts more than usual when he got dressed in the morning. The first time they had ever met, Sherlock had made sure John got something to eat, and always made sure John ate at least something. Without that, John managed to forget what the point of eating was. He would go through the motions of making himself a meal, or of buying himself something to eat, and would sit down with it at the table, maybe even take a bite or two, but it would inevitably wind up entirely in the rubbish bin. Mrs. Hudson tried to get him to eat sometimes, and would have a little success, but it wasn’t nearly enough to keep him from losing weight. His coworkers had more success than she did, but it was never a full meal. He would go through the motions of eating until they left, satisfied that he was eating again, but as soon as they were gone, he simply sat there staring at the food for several minutes before throwing it out, no matter how hungry he was.

This went on for quite some time. He managed to keep his job at the surgery, and kept on with his therapy, even though it wasn’t helping. Eventually, he shut down his blog – he couldn’t keep it up anymore, he simply didn’t have the energy – and stopped leaving the flat except for work and therapy. He never watched anything on the telly, never went to visit Molly at St. Bart’s, never asked after Mycroft anywhere. These were all things that reminded him of Sherlock, and Sherlock was the one thing he could never allow himself to think about. These things went on and on and on for months, until one day, his therapist asked if he’d visited Sherlock’s grave lately.

“What?” he asked, thinking he had misheard her.

“I asked if you had been to visit your friend’s grave lately,” she repeated calmly. “It might help you to move on if you went.”

“I tried in the beginning,” John replied, fighting the tears that threatened to well up in his eyes. “All that did was remind me that he’s gone. I don’t need to be reminded that he’s gone.”

“It’s just a suggestion,” she replied. “You don’t have to listen to a thing I say.”

“I know.”

After that appointment, John decided to walk back to the flat. The route he took brought him near the cemetery, where he paused, looking through the gates and towards the even rows of headstones. He briefly considered going in, but that brought him dangerously close to thinking about Sherlock, so he shook the thought away and went straight home, where everything was exactly the same as it was when he had left, except for one thing. The cup of coffee he’d left out for Sherlock that morning was empty.


End file.
